Marksmanship
by Alasse Faelivrin
Summary: tag to the episode The Long Goodbye


Marksmanship.

Rating: PG

Season: 2

Pairing: Weir/Ronon.

Summary: Tag to Long Goodbye

Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and its characters are © Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., the Sci Fi Channel, and Acme Shark. No infringement is intended. This story was created for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s).

"Just a few minutes," Carson says as I pad across the infirmary in my slippers. "I just chased Teyla and Rodney away so he could get some rest."

He pulls the curtains apart and I slip inside. The bed is surrounded by machines; a beeping monitor and IV pumps with several bags all dripping at different rates. The blipping and dripping are like a percussion section gone out of control.

In the bed, dressed in white scrubs, surrounded by white sheets, and with his larger than life hair pulled back and away, Ronon looks small.

Oxygen tubing snakes across a face almost as pale as the pillow case. His beard has been trimmed, and small raw red marks on the sides of his mouth remain from the straps that held a tube in place.

Carson has thoughtfully provided a stool, and I sink down onto it as I stare at Ronon's translucent sleeping face.

His arm is stretched out over the sheets and blankets. Clear tape covers parts of it, anchoring two separate IVs. Blood drips into one, clear liquid into the other. His hand, turned palm up, is curled into a loose fist. I take it in mine, sliding my own thin fingers inside his strong callused ones. I stroke his thumb lightly with mine.

I've moved beyond my schoolgirl crush. And he no longer scares me. Not that I don't still consider him dangerous. He is. Very. And I am drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.

"You're not a very good shot."

I jump and look up to see his eyes are half open, gazing sleepily at me. I try to pull my hand back but his fingers close tightly around mine.

"Don't worry," he says. His voice is still raspy from the endo-tracheal tube removed just hours before. "I know it wasn't you."

It wasn't me. But yet I watched through my own eyes as my fingers pulled the trigger and fired the shot into his belly. He's right – not a very good shot. Far too low to have killed him outright. Though if Dr Beckett were not the excellent surgeon that he is…

_I'm sorry,_ I want to say. I know it was Phebus who shot him, but she used my body, and it is my body that feels the guilt, like an icy fist clenched around my gut. Not only did she use my body, she used my thoughts and knowledge of Atlantis to nearly destroy us all. That knowledge and guilt are things I will have to live with and deal with in my own fashion. Ronon simply accepts that it wasn't me. Not for the first time do I envy him his clear black and white thinking.

"How are you feeling?" I ask instead. Simple, polite, bedside small talk.

His lips curve slightly. "Doc's got me on this stuff that makes me feel nothing," he tells me. "And I can't stay awake." His eyes are sliding closed.

I sit quietly and wait until he is asleep and his hand has released its grip on mine. I rise and walk back to my own bed, and my own thoughts.

Part 2

I stride briskly through the hallways of Atlantis, reveling in my freedom. It has been three weeks since "The Incident of the Pod People", as Rodney McKay insists on calling it, but the memory of not being able to control my own body is so strong that I still marvel that I can move of my own accord.

Dr Beckett stalks toward me, his face like thunder. Under his breath he is muttering something about "stubborn bloody aliens." I reach out and grab his arm to stop him.

"Carson, what's wrong?" I ask.

"It's Ronon," he says.

Uh oh. "Is he all right?" I ask immediately.

Ronon was just released from the infirmary a few days ago. I know Carson would have like to have kept him longer, but Ronon was going stir crazy and letting everyone know it. Especially the nurses, who are all a little afraid of him – even the big one named Ivan.

It's not entirely Ronon's fault. He's not exactly a bookworm, or a techie. Which left him, once he was feeling better, stuck in a hospital bed with literally nothing to do. For a man who spent seven years running from planet to planet alternately hunting and being hunted, asking him to keep his feet up and twiddle his thumbs is tantamount to a prison sentence.

McKay, helpful as always, gave him a copy of 'War and Peace' to read. I think he might have managed page two. I'm not sure Laura Cadman's harlequins would have fared much better.

"Is he all right?" I repeat to the still glowering doctor.

"Well he was, yesterday, when I took his staples out," Carson says. "I told him he needs to take it easy for at least two more weeks to properly heal. Light duties only, I said. Several times, I might add."

"There's nothing constituting 'light duties' in Ronon's job description," I point out. I have a feeling I know where this is going. "We can't exactly send him to help McKay and Zelenka." Much as the look on McKay's face would make me smile…

"Aye, I know," Carson sighs, "So light duty as good as means no duties for another two weeks. Is that really so much to ask? The man nearly died!"

"Under the care of another physician, perhaps," I say with an encouraging smile. "But not you. I'm sure Ronon has had much closer calls."

Carson is an excellent doctor, the best I've ever seen, but I know my assertion is due in part to continued feelings of guilt. After all, I am the one who shot him. In body if not in spirit.

Carson realizes this and backpedals quickly. "Aye, the lad will be fine. He just needs to take it easy." He emphasizes the last three words, his frown returning.

"I'll have a word with him," I promise the ruffled doctor. He raises his eyebrows at me skeptically.

True, a lecture on recovering from an abdominal gunshot wound might sound more convincing coming from a fellow warrior, like John or Teyla. But I'm the leader of this base, and the wellbeing of the personnel here are my responsibility.

I lift my head and square my shoulder. "Where is he?"

"The gym," Carson says darkly.

Ah.

Right.

I nod at him and continue in the direction I'm walking. The gym is just around the corner.

Ronon is alone. He is dressed in a sleeveless tunic and loose pants, barefoot and with his dreadlocks pulled back into a snake's nest of a ponytail. He is doing some sort of calisthenic exercise. The soaring graceful movements are reminiscent of Tai Chi. As he moves his arms, the tunic clings to his chest.

I clear my throat quickly and break his concentration. He lowers his arms to his sides and scowls at me.

"Beckett send you?" he demands.

I put on my best diplomatic face. "Dr Beckett," I say, emphasizing the word 'doctor', "is merely concerned about your recovery."

"I've recovered. I'm fine. Look!" He pulls up his shirt to display a glistening sixpack, marred only by a thin pink line, and a couple of peeling steristrips.

"Mmhmm," I say, feeling the heat rush to my face as I try to tear my eyes away from his muscles.

Perhaps a different approach. "On Earth," I explain, "Even the military officers must take orders from the doctors when it concerns their health."

"He ordered me to take it easy. I am taking it easy." He gestures around the empty gym. "I'm not sparing with anyone. No sword, no sticks."

"But you are still exercising," I point out.

"If I don't do something, my muscles will turn to – what is that white lumpy root vegetable they serve in the commissary?"

"Mashed potatoes?" I arch an eyebrow. I cannot imagine Ronon's arms even remotely resembling… Okay new train of thought.

"Yes." He wraps a lock of hair around his hand and tugs at it in frustration.

"You're bored," I say sympathetically. "You just need something to do."

"And you have a suggestion?" He folds his arms.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do." I smile smugly.

He waits, arms still folded, for my revelation.

"Back in the infirmary," I say, " you told me that I was a lousy shot. Well, that's very true – I'm not military. But with the ever present threat of the wraith, among other things, some skills may come in handy."

He is staring at me incredulously. "You want me to teach you to fight?"

"To shoot," I correct. "Nothing too heavy, just a small sidearm will be sufficient."

"It wasn't you that was the bad shot," he points out. "It was the pod person."

Clearly he's been talking to McKay.

"Yes, but she used my knowledge of our weapons, such as it is," I reply.

He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "Okay."

We stand in the small shooting range next to the armory. I'm wearing thick safety goggles and heavy grey hearing protectors that make me look like Princess Leia on a bad hair day. Even with a business like M9 Berretta in my hand I look absolutely ridiculous.

Ronon is wearing no accessories, of course. Earth's paranoid ultra-safety practices are a mystery and annoyance to him. I'll bet he's got a pretty efficient way of dealing with lawyers too.

I lift the berretta, holding it firmly in my right hand.

"Two hands," Ronon corrects me. "Support your wrist with your left hand."

I'm pretty sure I've seen both him and John hold one gun in each hand, and those guns were bigger than this one, but I don't argue. After all, I've asked him to teach me. So I sigh and hold my gun the girly way.

I take careful aim at the paper target in front of me and fire. I'm prepared for the kick, so I hold steady and fire again, then a third time for good measure. I lower the gun and rub my aching wrist, which is much more comfortable tapping at a computer tablet.

Ronon pulls the target in and holds it up for our inspection. His lips are firmly pressed together, but his shoulders are shaking quite a bit. He's trying desperately not to laugh.

I look down at the target. None of the bullets have even touched the black silhouette. One is off to the right corner just at the edge of the paper, one similarly to the left, and the closest is about three inches above the top of the head.

"If this had been a wraith, you might have damaged its hair," Ronon offers. He fingers one of his own locks in mock solemnity, apparently grateful that the pod person in me aimed low.

I give him a nasty look and he fails in his attempt to hide his smirk. "Let me try again," I say.

"Okay."

He sets up a fresh target and again I take aim. The first round this time doesn't even touch the paper. I grit my teeth in frustration.

"You're jerking your hands when you pull the trigger." His voice is in my ear, and I jump as I feel his breath tickle my neck. The next thing I know he's pressed up against me from behind. His arms come around me and his hands cover mine on the gun.

"Now hold it steady," he says. That's pretty easy to do when you've got six plus foot of muscle holding you up. My next shot goes straight through the target's heart.

"Good," he says. "Now you know what it's supposed to feel like. Do it again." He releases my hands, dropping his to rest on my shoulders. I lean back against him slightly, hold my hands as steady as I can and squeeze the trigger. The round goes through the target's right shoulder. Not a vital organ, but at least I hit the body this time.

"Better," Ronon says, lightly squeezing my shoulders. His fingers feel good on my tight muscles. My shoulders feel like I've swum twenty laps. I didn't realize shooting was this much work.

"Ronon?"

Teyla's voice from the doorway propels me forward and away from Ronon, heat rushing to my face.

"There you are!" She enters, nodding politely to me. "Doctor Beckett said that you are not to be doing anything strenuous," she scolds.

Ronon raises his hands in mock surrender. "I'm only giving advice," he says.

"I asked him to," I intervene quickly.

Teyla turns to regard me fully. "You are learning weaponry, Dr Weir?" she asks politely, her eyebrows arched.

I pull off my Princess Leia muffs and pat down my hair, trying to regain some dignity.

"She's getting pretty good," Ronon says, showing her the second target. The first I see he has crumpled into a small ball. I smile gratefully, and he gives me a small wink.

Teyla looks at the target and nods, impressed. "I could teach you to fight with the sticks if you like," she offers.

"Or knives," Ronon adds. "You have strong hands – you'd be good with knives."

I put the gun carefully down and rub my wrists again. "Thanks, but I think I'm good for now," I say.

"In that case," Teyla turns to Ronon. "Dr Beckett and I are taking some medical supplies to the mainland. He said it would be alright for you to accompany us, if you wish."

"Okay," Ronon's usual response is flavored with eagerness. He turns to me. "We're done here, right?"

"Right," I tell him. "Thank you."

"No problem." He smiles at me, then hurries after Teyla toward the jumper bay.

Fresh air, sunshine – I'd love to go with them, but I've got a base to run. I sigh and head down the hall to my office.

Paperwork awaits.


End file.
